With my nose buried in his hair, I had to gasp for breath around the gristly mass in my mouth, but I clung to the thing like a terrier while blood spattered everywhere and my attacker howled in pain.
He left off pawing at my dress and tried to shake me bodily, but that only made his ear hurt more. Blows to my head were futile for the same reason. Finally he doubled up his fist and hit me as hard as possible in the stomach.
The air rushed out of my lungs and I lost my grip, gasping frantically for breath and doubled over in pain. Unable to defend myself any longer, I slid to the floor.
Blackness whirled softly over me—numbness, darkness, a snuffling, grunting sound that mingled with the blue light of something suffocating me…I came to with the skirt of my dress over my head and my attacker rooting between my legs with urgent intent. I felt the pushing of his member and writhed away as he sought to force it home—twisted, kicked, clawed at the fabric prison, desperate to reach his face, his arms, any place I could inflict damage. But the silk only got more tangled, and in spite of my struggles he finally attained his goal.
He was not a large man but the pain and revulsion of violation sent waves of nausea through me. I groaned and howled and screamed between retches, but to no avail; apparently the guard had been forewarned, and the dog stayed at the door.
It occurred to me that when Maelgwn was done it would be over, and for a bit I tried to move in consort with him, hoping to bring him to climax and finish. But though he mauled and pawed me, sweating and straining and grunting between pants of breath, there seemed no surcease.
Dear Goddess, I prayed, get this beast through his stupid rutting and off of me.
But the Mother must have been attending to other things, for there came no help, and eventually I lay limp across the bed, spraddled and moaning and utterly exhausted. And still he kept going.
No doubt there were moments now when I could have pushed free of him, had I been able to muster the strength and hope from within. But something had happened; I was no longer pinned beneath the bulk of the man but saw the scene as from a distance, looking down on a pitiful parody of the loving union and thinking what unconscionable creatures humans can be.
From the far-off safety of detachment I told myself it was not I he was touching; only the flesh, not the spirit, was subjugated to his will. Let the monster hump and groan and wallow in the trough he was plowing between my thighs; what had that to do with me?
My spirit moved, cool and clean as a mountain pool, in realms he would never know. I closed my eyes and drifted out of consciousness.
***
“Gwen?”
The word came softly, gently, across vast stretches of time. It was repeated over and over, rounding on the air—calling, guiding, cradling me in its sound. Slowly it gathered my spirit in, drawing me back to existence, to a body that ached and throbbed and moaned with pain.
“Gwen…Gwen…can you hear me?”
The voice was familiar, running soft and sure, like the hand that brushed the hair back from my face, as much a caress as a gesture of concern. I nodded without opening my eyes, wondering vaguely what Lancelot was doing in my dream.
“Gwen, love, we have to get you out of here. Can you walk?”
“Don’t know,” I mumbled, the effort raising a searing pain in my ribs. I wanted to tell him I’d try, but all that came out was a whimper.
“Well, I can carry you if it comes to that.”
His arms were around me already, holding and cuddling and protecting me against something dreadful that lurked just over the edge of wakefulness. The dream was threatening to become a nightmare, and I tried to avoid it by turning in to his embrace.
But the terror persisted—just beyond memory, diffuse and ugly and having something to do with my cousin.
“Where’s Maelgwn?” My voice was weak and frightened and as hushed as Lance’s own.
“Posting back to Degannwy. His party almost ran me over at the gate, riding as though the Hounds of the Wild Hunt were on his trail. Must be awfully important to have drawn him out at midnight in such a rush.”
Probably his wife’s death, I thought fuzzily, then wondered how I knew she was dying. Horrible half memories floated up to consciousness; disjointed bits of detail paraded behind my closed eyelids like a grotesque pageant until the physical pain in my body blotted them all out.
I was shivering so hard my teeth chattered. Lance drew his cloak around us both and began rocking gently as I snuggled in against his warmth. For the moment there was safety, there was protection, there was a kindred soul willing to stand beside me and help ward off my pain. The very idea was unbelievable.
“We must leave soon,” he whispered. “My horse is in the copse of birches where I hid when Maelgwn’s entourage thundered over the bridge. There’s a coracle beached by the side of the lodge; we can take it back across the water. Just stay down and quiet under my cape, and let me do the talking if anyone challenges us.”
“But there’s a guard at my door.”
Both mind and vision were blurring in and out of focus, and I wondered how Lance had gotten in without seeing him. More and more things were getting tangled in this weird delirium.
Arthur’s lieutenant swallowed hard and turned his head away.
“Some deaths can’t be helped,” he answered. “I only wish it had been Maelgwn himself.”
The outrage of his tone left no room for reply, so I gritted my teeth and struggled to my feet. My body was stiff and sore, but no bones seemed broken except perhaps the ribs, judging from the constant pain in my chest.
With the Breton’s help I made it slowly to the door.
A torch flickered in its bracket, casting shadows across the main room of a hunting lodge where the walls were hung with horns and antlers and a pair of bearskins flanked the door. I saw the sentry’s feet as we crept past the place where Lance had dragged the body and mentally made the sign against evil.
There was no moon, so we slipped the coracle into the stream without even casting a shadow and made for a clump of rushes beyond sight of the guards on the bridge.
The cold lapping of the water sharpened my senses, though my mind still moved with the languid calm of one in a trance. The undefined nightmare was following us even across the water, and I shied from thinking of it. It was enough to concentrate on escape.
Our luck held and Lance’s horse remained silent as we approached through the trees. Lifting me to the saddle, Lance swung up behind and gathered me in his arms. Within minutes we were well away from the hunting lodge and heading for the Road.
“How did you know where I was?” I asked numbly as we left the trees behind and the horse lengthened out into a long trot beside open fields.
“I was going south to join Arthur, and met Uwain posting back to Penrith with the news. He led me to where the ambush took place; from there the trail of flowers showed where you’d entered the forest, and there were enough in your party to make the tracking easy.”
I nodded, only half understanding what he said, though a shower of hawthorn blossoms seemed to be falling around us. My mind reeled when I tried to make more sense of it, and my teeth began to chatter again.
“There, now, you just relax,” Lance murmured, settling me back against his chest. He started to croon the little melodies one sings to a frightened bairn, and I moved closer in the shelter of his embrace, suddenly very, very tired and glad to give over control to someone else.
The tears began without my even knowing, starting in little runnels that brimmed silently from a pool of sorrow welling up in my heart. Nestling my head against the Breton’s shoulder, I let the flood of anguish pour out while the stars glimmered around us and the horse moved as smoothly as though gliding over glass.
I cried for the loss of my father, of Kaethi, of the child at Stirling and Igraine in the convent; for those I had known and love
d, and those, like the guard at the hunting lodge, whom I had cause to fear or hate. There were even tears for Mama, now so long gone, and for the Irish boy who had once carried me through a starlit night himself, oh so many years ago.
Gone and lost, every one, and only I left to mourn them, here in the magical safety of Lancelot’s care. Their faces rose before me, floating in the starlight like the stuff of dandelions wafting on a summer breeze. They lifted and fell while Lance’s voice spun out around us, keeping fear and remembrance beyond that web of sound. Sometimes he sang, but more often he talked as Kevin had talked, proclaiming his love and promising to take me to Tara to be his Queen. Even in my fever state it seemed an odd thing for the Breton to do, and I pulled back slightly, trying to see his expression.
It was then, searching the face that was silhouetted against the light of the stars, that I found my young love had come back to claim me after all.
A rush of sweetness, of hope and surprise and unimaginable joy, flooded through me, wakening the bright high happiness that had been so long asleep. I was a girl again, and free, riding on the clean wild wind of the northern fells even as I was held safe and protected within his arms.
He looked down at me with a depth of tenderness that flowed over me without words. And when the flash of his smile filled the night, my heart leapt in wonder that he, too, cherished the love that had never been spoken aloud. The world began to spin wildly.
***
With his free hand he pressed my head back against his shoulder, kissing my hair and crooning softly. It was a gesture of infinite gentleness and care, and my soul was dazzled with rapture as I drifted out of consciousness for good.
Chapter XXIII
The Convent
The next fortnight was spent wandering in a delirium of terrifying nightmares and poignantly beautiful dreams.
Everyone I knew gathered in that twilight: Mama and Kevin, Brigit and Nonny, and the spinning mistress Vida. There were people from the Court as well; Arthur himself came and went in my delusions, though it was Lance who was at my bedside whenever I awoke.
Once I lay and watched the Breton through half-opened eyes when he didn’t know I had returned to consciousness. He was reading from a scroll, head bent in concentration, dark hair falling forward. He had shaved his beard, revealing again the rich sensual mouth, fascinating in its fullness. After a bit he raised his head to stare off into space, pensive, mysterious, seeking something of the spirit no one else was privy to.
Fragmented memories of riding through the night glimmered at the edge of consciousness, evanescent as any dream, without beginning or end—but I had no idea whether they were scraps of fantasy or based on a real event. Still, somewhere inside me beauty and amazement stirred like a splendid bird that starts in its sleep, then fluffs up its feathers and becomes quiet again. I drifted back to my fever-world with a smile.
Another time I asked where Arthur was, and the lieutenant frowned and said something about a terrible battle. I tried to stay awake—tried to learn where and against whom—but the world dissolved around me, and I was lost in delirium again.
After that the nightmares turned murderous, full of danger and despair. Powerless against the force of them, I fled from scene to scene, stumbling at last upon a broad, flat plain where two full armies stand ready for combat. In the space between them a pair of ghostly Champions struggle, one with sword, the other with spear. Though they stalk each other with deadly determination, neither makes a sound.
Horror crept through me as I watched, unable to sway the outcome, incapable of turning away. Finally, in a spurt of blood and gore, I see the one skewered through the belly by the other’s spear—feel the searing pain, hear the death rattle as blood and entrails and life pour from him. Convulsing in his last throes, his back arches and he twists slowly into the light. The hope and visions that once filled his eyes now flickered out and his mouth fell open in a silent scream as he reached across the void to me.
“Arthur! Arthur!” I came to shrieking, sitting bolt upright as a cold, clammy sweat enveloped me.
“Shh, shh now…it’s all right…it’s only a bad dream.” Lance was at my bedside immediately and I flung my arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Arthur’s safe, Gwen. Safe. Do you hear me?…He’s no longer in danger.”
“Then where is he?” I wailed, clinging to the lieutenant. “Why isn’t he here?”
“Because he’s rounding up Saxons in the south.” Lance’s voice was firm and reasonable, giving solid credence to his words. “The battle of Mt. Badon was a crucial victory, and he dares not leave the final cleaning-up half-done.”
It sounded logical enough and the pounding of my heart began to slow. I peered cautiously at the world that was coming into focus beyond the safety of the Breton’s arms.
It was a small, sparsely furnished room, much like Igraine’s at the convent. Sunlight poured through the open window and spilled down the whitewashed walls. Sparrows were rustling in the thatch, and the murmur of doves cooing in a nearby courtyard drifted through the casement. Compared with the shadowy realms I had been wandering in, this was light and life itself.
The presence of the Breton was also reassuring; he would not be here if Arthur was in danger somewhere else. I ran my hand along his arm experimentally, feeling the strength of the muscle, the fine fur of hair. It was very real to the touch and didn’t evaporate the way things in dreams do. With a sigh I leaned my head against his chest, then groaned aloud as a stabbing pain shot through my back.
“Brigit says you must stay quiet,” Lance admonished, easing me down among the pillows. “She says the infection may still be present.”
“Brigit? Where are we?”
“In her convent. I brought you here because of her skill as a healer. Lavinia should be arriving soon, and Nimue, too.”
He paused, and I smiled weakly, glad to have so many dear friends near. It did not occur to me to ask why there was a need for healing.
“I promised to tell Brigit when you woke up,” Lance went on. “She’ll be no end of pleased.”
I watched the Breton leave, feeling that light, free headi-ness that comes after a long illness, when you know you are going to live but have not yet taken up the daily struggle. Still, my buoyancy of spirit was tempered by something…something dreadful and sickening that lurked beyond my ken and threatened to overwhelm me. Turning my face to the wall, I prayed for Brigit’s quick arrival, for I did not want to face that something by myself.
Sleep must have reclaimed me, for when I next opened my eyes Brigit was there, sitting in the glow of an oil lamp, silently saying her evening prayers. I watched her quietly, marveling at the air of composure and gentle contentment that radiated from her. For all that I would have liked to see her marry Bedivere and raise a family, I couldn’t deny that she looked happy and fulfilled here.
“It really was the right decision for you, wasn’t it?” I asked when she glanced over at me.
“Aye.” She gave me a fond smile and tucking a wayward strand of hair under her veil, came to sit on the bed. “To accept your moira is half the battle won. Now, tell me how you feel.”
We slid into the old ways of banter and shared confidences as though we’d never been apart. She pulled back the covers, and when I rolled over on my side she poked around my back, asking if it hurt.
“A little sore, but not really painful. What happened, Brigit? Why am I here? I can’t sort out the memories…”
“You’ve been terribly sick…so sick we thought we’d lose you. Sometimes that happens after rape.”
The word clove the air in two, quivering like an arrow just struck home. I froze as half-remembered fears became a certainty.
“Maelgwn…that bastard Maelgwn.” I groaned, feeling my gorge rise as memory flooded in. “Oh, heavens, what happened to Griflet? Is he alive? And my women?”
Brigit hastily put her hand on my arm. “Lance says Griflet didn’t die, nor were the other women hurt. It was you they wanted.”
“Griflet warned me…dear Gods, he didn’t want to take us on that outing.” A dreadful, cold numbness settled over me as pictures of the abduction and rape marched relentlessly through my head. My voice went hollow, and the words came forth without any feeling at all—like a distant, detached report of something that had nothing to do with me. “I should never have tried to outbluff Maelgwn. If only I’d been more…more sensible. Less arrogant. I should have watched my tongue…”
Every moment of contact with my cousin loomed before me, each full of ghastly portent, each blindly ignored. I recounted them while Brigit sat silent, perhaps knowing that I had to be cleansed of the memory before I could begin to live again.
The bells for chapel rang somewhere in the night, but she stayed beside me, listening, talking, sometimes just holding me while I stared bleakly into the past. By the time dawn was breaking I lay exhausted, wrung out with remembering and ready for sleep. The work of healing was only just begun, but at least it was a start.
The next day Vinnie arrived in grand style, having been carried from the villa at Cunetio in Igraine’s litter. The plump little widow swept into my cubicle insisting that she be given the room next to mine. Lance, who had occupied it until then, graciously gave over, and my old governess set about “putting things to rights” as though I were a child in her charge again.
Nothing escaped her notice: a novice was sent off to a local farm to make arrangements for a daily pot of chicken soup with which to augment the convent’s simple fare; there were muttered prayers and imprecations as the bundle of herbs someone had tied to my bedpost was replaced by a bowl of holy water which Vinnie sprinkled on me three times daily. And she fussed over me like a robin trying to feed a cuckoo chick.
Nimue’s arrival was as quiet as Vinnie’s had been noisy; she simply walked into my cell one morning while the nuns were at Mass. Lance greeted her kindly enough, then excused himself in order to leave us alone.
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